Meshwork Fragile
by Sanded Silk
Summary: In a military official's  rather intimidating  mind, Eames finds a young woman unable to identify her surroundings, her purpose, or herself. "Forgotten" rewritten. Eames/OC
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**: Rework of my other Inception story, "Forgotten." I'm trying this out from Eames' POV limited instead, just to see how it works :D

I looked over "Forgotten" just now, and saw so many errors. _So many errors_. Why did no one point them out to me? Like how projections can't speak? In the movie, Cobb directly says:

"You can literally talk to my subconscious." (pointing at the projections to an oblivious Ariadne)

...SOO.

Please tell me what you think!

**Disclaimer**: Nomine.

-Sanded Silk-

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><p>Eames scratches his chin roughly with a gloved hand, trying to ignore the oncoming numbness in his cramped knees. Music sounding like grumbling, roiling, incessant thunder echoes across the sky.<p>

"Trent, we have to get out of here _now_," he mutters into his walkie-talkie, unable to resist. The music, the rain, the bucking ground, the increasingly-hostile projections. Eames had been stabbed and shot and beaten countless times in dreams, but he still could not entirely take comfort in the fact that he would wake up in reality. Being stabbed or shot or beaten—or some messed-up combination of all three—was _not fun_.

"We have another twenty minutes down here, Eames."

"I don't care at this point, Trent. Goldsmith will discover us, if he hasn't already, and his subconscious will eat us alive."

"He hasn't yet, and that's all that matters."

"Damn it, Trent, this is an army base we're in right now!"

"Courtesy to our architect. Goldsmith is a military official, after all."

"I don't mind the army base, but the _soldiers_—"

Something blows up behind Eames, and he struggles to his feet, cursing his pinpricked legs like mad.

"Eames?"

"Shut up!" Eames roars, not bothering to hold down the speak button, as he runs for his life.

"Eames? Hello? Ea—"

Eames rips his walkie-talkie from his vest, throwing it aside as he runs.

Dirt and rock and metal fall around him like bits of dying lightning. Shouts behind him, rapid gunfire, thudding footfalls. Securing his gun in the holster, Eames sprints across the rutted ground, occasionally stumbling over jutting bits of rock. The sky above him frowns, dark, almost black, tinged with red in some places. Never a good sign.

Flat brick buildings, unforgiving, half-buried by the sun-baked earth, rise along the horizon. A rusting metal fence surrounds the buildings, spiked, ready to crackle at the slightest touch. Eames runs faster, away from the ruined shelter he had been hiding in, towards this intact brick prison. He recognizes the rough layout from the architect's debrief. The main headquarters. Probably where Goldsmith himself is.

Something shoots into his leg. It might be a piece of rock. It doesn't have to be a bullet. He tells himself this as he continues running, a sweat breaking across his brow.

There is no way he will run headlong into the main headquarters. The main entrance itself is hard to find as it is. So he veers hard left, partly to find another new hiding spot, partly to ease the pain in his injured calf. Something in his brain—a faint memory—tells him to keep running, keep running; there's a hiding spot here, somewhere. A hole in the metal fence. Eastep said so. Showed him the layout.

Headquarters security sees him. More shouting, more gunfire. Another piece of—of _something_—in him, this time in his shoulder. Eames doubles over, his breath wrenched out of his lungs.

He calls the layout back to mind, in bits and pieces. Tries to remember Eastep's debrief. Where is he now? Where might he find some place to crouch and lick his wounds, maybe even wait out the remaining twenty minutes? The hole was somewhere here—

He doesn't have to think much more. A hand appears, flying out of nowhere, dragging him towards the fence, around a corner, through the metal fencing. The barbed edges, sunken into the shadow of the building, brush his arms harmlessly. He stumbles under a brick outcropping of the building. Too blinded by the pain to care who it is dragging him along, Eames holds his other hand over his shoulder and tries to keep up.

A brick wall hits him hard on the side, and the hand guides him sideways. He feels a long strand of hair whip across his hand. Who on his team has long hair?

The thought dies on his mind as he is pulled through a meshwork of metal, pipes, brick, stone, round smooth surfaces, sharp baked edges.

"Murris?" The other forger, Eames thinks. "Is that you?"

"Shh." Eames can't discern whether the hushing voice is feminine or masculine. He nearly trips over another low-lying pipe and curses Eastep's claustrophobic taste.

"Murris, once we get out of here, help me boot Eastep."

"Shhh." More insistent this time. Eames shuts his mouth.

Shadows whip over his eyes, across his brow. He tries to look up, sees nothing but a pale patch of artificial light, blotted out mostly by…by something. Pipes. Oh, right. Pipes.

Endless ropes of metal, welded together, twining, bending, over him now. Beautiful, uniform diamonds, whizzing by over his head. Countless little windows to the open, breathing sky.

Total darkness, suddenly, and Eames panics.

"Murris—"

"I-I'm…um. I'm not Murris."

A female voice. A woman. From the team? There is no woman on the team. Eames presses away from the voice.

"Wait!" Sudden distress, so sudden. "Please don't leave."

"What?" Eames can feel his blood on his shirt, sticking to his skin, rapidly turning cold.

A hand gingerly pinches his shirt, where he was shot. "You're hurt. Sit down for a while."

"You—"

"Sit down." The hand pushes him against a wall, pushes him down onto the ground. His legs give out, the bullet in his calf causing earthquakes of pain across his body. Chasms of pain, nightmares of pain, red washing across his eyes in cresting throbs. How he wishes he could wake up now.

He forces his eyes to open. First and foremost, to figure out where he _is_.

As the woman, swathed by darkness, works at tearing away his sleeve, Eames' eyes adjust slowly, slowly. There is a dim light almost directly above him, giving off a weak, yellowish light. He slowly begins to make out the rectangular nature of the room, the corners where the walls and the hard floor meet. With an effort, he moves his eyeballs downwards, and tries hard to see the woman.

Hardly a woman, really. Or he can't tell. She's rather short, which he can see even while she's crouched beside him. He squints harder, trying to see her. He makes out impossibly-long hair, vaguely dark, parted messily down the middle. A straight, small nose, highlighted by the dim light overhead. Furrowed brow. Her military garb, while intact, is covered in dirt. Her breath is even and light.

She finishes binding his detached sleeve around his shoulder, and moves to touch his leg.

He jumps. "Don't touch me."

Her head lifts, presumably to look at him. He can't see her eyes, but he can see her smooth cheekbones, her larger-than-normal forehead, a hint of her eyelashes.

"Okay," she says, and leans back.

"What do you want? You're not part of the team," Eames demands shortly.

"I…um…"

"What?" Eames seethes at the pain, at the stranger.

"I w-want to know where I am," she stutters after a long moment.

"…What?"

"Where I am. Can you…um…can you tell me?"

"Wait. You didn't bring me here to torture me for information, or to bait my teammates, or—?"

"No." Her hair juggles the light as she shakes her head.

"Who are you?"

"I…"

"Who are you?"

"I don't know."

"And you don't know where you are."

"R…Right."

"_And_ you're not trying to kill me."

"Why would I?"

Eames shifts on the ground, trying to quell the sudden urge to laugh, to yell.

"You expect me to fall for that innocent question? 'Why would you'? You're part of Goldsmith's subconscious! You're militarized, you're ready to rip the intruder to pieces! So why aren't you doing that now?"

"Who…who is Goldsmith? What is a 'projection'?"

The pain bites at his leg, at his shoulder, but Eames doesn't care. He's too pissed. He leans forward.

"Do you think I'm a fucking idiot? I know who you are, and I _know_ that you know who you are and where you are and what you're trying to do with me. You're just trying to distract me from the mission, from rejoining my teammates—unless you're Murris, in which case you're being a bloody _bastard_."

"Who's Murris? W-Who's Goldsmith—?"

"Stop asking me! I _know_ that you _know_!" Eames jabs an accusatory finger at the woman. She leans away, and he sees her brow furrow with worry, with fear.

"Please," she says, "I'm not trying to hurt you. I'm not trying to trick you. I'm not Murris, or Goldsmith. I-I don't know who I am, or where I am. I-If you could just…" She raises her hands before her, palms stretched out, conciliatory.

Eames sits against the wall and thinks. Which is kind of hard, with the bullets in his body and the sweat in his eyes and all.

"How about this," he says more quietly. "Lift your face. I can't see you with the light above your head."

"Oh!" Sounding relieved, she lifts her chin. "I-I'm sorry, that was inconsiderate of me…"

She's smiling, the corners of her mouth turned up in the most relieved smile he's seen, although she still looks a bit anxious. Big eyes, the color of which he can't quite discern— polite, honest eyes, eager to appease. The light pools on her forehead, on the skin under her eyes, making her look bone-thin. A reedy figure in oversized military clothes, boots, a bullet-proof vest hanging loosely about her torso, her long hair cascading down over her shoulders and onto the ground. She doesn't look much older than him; probably several years younger, even.

"You were asking me where you are?"

"Yes," she says, looking at him hopefully, apprehensively.

"You're in Goldsmith's mind."

"Who's…Goldsmith?"

"Military official."

"I'm in his _mind_?"

"Yes."

"But…how did I get here?"

"You're a projection of his subconscious. How do you not know this?"

"I'm a…I'm a what?"

"A projection? Of his subconscious?"

Silence.

Eames rubs his head. "Let me put it this way. Every person has a part of his or her that works without their knowing. That's the subconscious, where all the person's uncontrollable, instinctive thoughts and desires are. Do you _really_ not know any of this?"

"Yes. And I am a…a projection of…of this part of Goldsmith's mind?"

"Yes."

"What's a 'projection'?"

"You're a personification of his subconscious. You represent a slice of it, so to speak. A dimension of his mind."

"And…um, what are you?"

"Me? I'm an intruder. I'm here to steal his thoughts."

"Should…um…should you be telling me this?"

"Probably not."

"The pain is really getting to you, isn't it?" She sounds genuinely concerned, leaning forward, tilting her head down a little. Her eyes disappear into the shadows.

"I'm fine. Lift your face, you let it fall." She obligingly lifts her chin again, looking extremely worried.

"I'm _fine_. And I still don't really believe you," he repeats. His voice sounds slurred, even to his own ears.

She nods thoughtfully, still looking at him, watching his face.

A long bout of silence. Eames fights to keep his head upright, and wonders how much time he has left in the dream.

"How much more time do you have here?" she asks.

"What?" Eames is caught off guard.

"How much…um…" She trails off, looking at the ceiling, frowning. Eames doesn't hear or see anything, but after a moment he does; the music is getting louder, more prominent. Edith Piaf's voice, slowed as it is, is more prominent.

"I have to leave soon," Eames says. To his surprise, her head snaps down to look at him, and her eyebrows knit together in anxiety.

"You have to leave? Will you come back?" She asks urgently.

"What? I—"

The music jars, skips. Must be the iPod—first generation—finally winding down its life span.

She grabs his sleeve. "Are you coming back? Are you?"

"Why?" Eames says, confused.

"Please—you have to come back. Will you? You won't—leave—forever?" She edges closer on her knees, bringing her face closer to his, and he is able to make out her eyes.

"What's wrong?" Eames doesn't move back, only sits still. This girl, this complete stranger. Asking him to come back. _Needing_ him? But why? No one has ever _needed_ Eames before.

The ground rocks. Her hand tightens on his sleeve.

"Please," she says, afraid of—of something. Eames can taste the fear in the air around her, but he doesn't know what she's afraid of. Her earnestness, her genuine fear, eats at him. He can't find the strength to doubt her, or to sustain her worry.

With an effort, he pats her hand.

"I don't know if I'm coming back or not, darling," he says, "but if the others failed, then I'll probably be coming back. If we're done here, if we got what we were looking for, then I won't be coming back."

She sinks visibly.

"There wouldn't be any point!" Eames says, hurriedly. "If we got what Semantics wants, then I'd have no excuse to come muddling around in Goldsmith's mind anymore."

"But then there'd be…" She swallows. "Th-there'd be no one here."

"No one here?"

"Just the darkness. And the floating. Maybe even the metal box."

"…The _what_?"

Metal creaks around them, grinding against masonry. The light above them swings dangerously.

Eames looks carefully at the girl's face. The skin is tight around her mouth and her eyes, and her brow is deeply furrowed; she's watching him, waiting intensely for him to answer; she looks afraid. Truly, deeply afraid.

"All right. I'll try—"

Before he's done talking, her face has relaxed. She looks happy, even.

And then the ground falls through.

And he's awake, sitting up, rubbing his face. The train bucks, causing him to groan audibly.

Trent is already up and about, collecting the sleep machine together, snapping wires off wrists, clipping the briefcase shut.

"Eames, we've got to go. Now."

"Goldsmith found us out?"

"More or less."

"Shit."

"Well," Trent says, sighing heavily as he straightens, "At least it isn't Cobol. You know what they did to Michel."

"Semantics won't be that much better."

"At least they'll let us back into the country," Trent says, and stifles a yawn when he sees Eames' troubled expression.

"What's wrong?" Trent asks, in a lowered voice; Goldsmith is stirring.

As everyone else files quickly out the train car to the exit, preparing to get off at the next stop, Eames looks back at Goldsmith.

"I met someone in there."

"Met someone?"

"It wasn't Murris, unless he was playing some stupid trick on me."

"Who was it?" Trent asks, motioning for Eames to leave, looking concerned.

As they break into a run, Eames shakes his head. "I don't know."

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><p><strong>AN**: Yup.

:D

REVIEEEWS PLEEEASE

-Sanded Silk-


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N**: Hey, will you look at that. An update.

So yeah, no joke! Here's chapter 2. Good to be back guys :D

**Disclaimer: **Nomiiine.

-Sanded Silk-

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><p>"So she…isn't a projection?"<p>

"I don't know!"

Trent looks at Eames, concerned. Eames rubs a hand through his hair, more confused and angry than concerned.

"Does she have a _name_, at least?" Trent prods, trying to fill in the holes that Eames has blindly leaped over.

"Not that I know of."

"And how are you sure that she isn't baiting you, or somehow tricking you, or…?"

"I don't know! That's why I'm talking to you!"

Trent heaves a sigh. "Even if we go back in there, she might have a changed appearance. I don't know if projections retain their appearance from dream to dream. If she's a projection, anyway. Her entire consciousness might be different, wiped clean. She might not even remember that she's met you."

"But she's aware that she doesn't know where she is."

"Eames, I honestly think we should just forget it. It's much more likely that she's—that Goldsmith's deceiving you. It's probably not worth our getting headaches over."

"But it was so genuine! She was afraid, she was confused. The fact that she didn't try to kill me like the other projections were—"

"—could have been another ploy to deceive you."

Eames curses in frustration.

"Do you feel like you need to go back?" Trent asks.

"How much does Goldsmith know about our mission?"

"I'm not entirely sure," Trent says. "I know that he saw my face when the mask ripped off, so I probably shouldn't go in with you if you choose to. I can monitor, of course; but only while he's asleep. And…let's see. He doesn't know any names, any identities, anyone else's face. I take it you didn't meet him in the dream?"

Eames shakes his head. "I don't think even the projections got a good look at my face."

"Except her."

"If she's a projection."

"But I don't understand. What else can she be?" Trent challenges.

"I don't know! I need to go back in there, find out."

"You're taking a big risk here, Eames."

Eames sighs. "I know," he says, because he does.

-o-o-

The flight attendant, bought out by Eames, serves Goldsmith a cup of drugged ice water with a smile. Eames watches carefully from his seat as the man, leaning back and completely at ease, drinks from the cup—and almost immediately falls asleep.

Eames jumps to his feet. Trent, sitting behind him and out of Goldsmith's line of sight, throws off his hood and stands as well, stretching his cramped legs.

The attendant's smile drops from her face. Stoic now, she leaves the compartment to retrieve the briefcase from its hiding place.

"Do you think I should take some of the sedative?" Eames asks half-heartedly as he rolls back his sleeve in preparation for the tape.

"Don't know. I don't think you do. Do you think fifteen minutes in reality will be enough?"

"Should be plenty. If I don't find her by then, I'll probably just drop the subject."

"That would be a wise thing to do," Trent says pointedly as he receives the briefcase from the attendant.

Eames ignores Trent's comment and reaches for the tube offered to him. A piece of highly-adhesive tape is ripped and given to him. His heart is hammering, for no good reason that he can discern. Why would he be nervous? Unnerved in any way at all?

He lies down on the seat again, pushing the back of the seat into a recline, and closes his eyes, barely hearing Trent's well wishes.

-o-o-

Leaves skittering, dancing across a blacktop.

Eames looks up. Finds himself standing in the middle of a road, thinly curtained by trees, shooting through a colonnade of identical business buildings, into the rapidly-setting sun. Not the safest place to be, so he moves onto the sidewalk.

And then they swarm in. Bursting from behind walls and trees, intimidating in their number, their metal-soled boots. And armed, every single one of them. Overpowered, outnumbered, possibly even outwitted, Eames puts his hands behind his head, muttering curses.

Drawn to the sound of metal-soled boots, she turns a corner, light-footed despite her heavy gear and metal shoes.

The projections surrounding him turn on her, guns at the ready. Some don't react, staying stoic; others recoil immediately, even crying out at the sight of her.

A good portion of the heavily-militarized projections take to their heels, much to Eames' dismay. The sky is turning dark grey, steadily, visibly. The sun stills, sensing trouble.

She gets closer, stops about a block away. Eames lets his hands flop down to his sides. Now, even the most steadfast of the projections are moving away, looking unnerved. Eames looks between them and the girl.

"What are you doing to them?" he asks her. She's within earshot for him to speak normally.

She moves again, coming closer. Now the projections are gone. Speaking, low and urgently, to themselves and to each other, they hurry from the area in no apparent formation.

She stops beside him, looking up at him. She is a head shorter than him, bird-framed, deep russet hair wrapping elegantly about her waist. Her eyes are big and anxious as before, dark, and clear. She stares him down without meaning to.

The sun dips itself with a sigh beneath the horizon, and the sky turns rose-red, the far corners remaining dark grey. The only sound, for a long time, is the skittering of leaves on the ground.

She turns away. "You…you came back. Why is that?" She asks the empty street.

"…I can't say. It's actually quite the stupid thing to do, isn't it?" Eames jokes, laughing nervously. His first instinct at the first sign of discomfort is to squeeze out a laugh.

"I asked many to help me," the girl muses. "There are many of your kind, seeking information. None of them helped me. But perhaps you will."

Her shoulders shake slightly with silent, brief laughter. "Excuse me. This is kind of surreal."

_Excuse me? _You're_ saying that?_

"What is it you want help with?" Eames says, cutting to the chase.

"I need you to help me get out of here."

"Out of…excuse me, out of where?"

"I know what you're thinking. Yes, out of Goldsmith's mind."

Eames crosses his arms, looking at her fully. "So you're not a projection."

"I'm not sure what I am," she says slowly. "I was hoping to ask you if…um, if you could help me—"

"—figure out what you are?" Eames shakes his head. "I have no idea how to go about it."

"But you must know someone who might?"

Eames thinks of Trent. "The one person who might have an inkling of an idea was unmasked in the last dream. They can't come back in. And I can't act as some kind of messenger between you two, going back and forth—it's too dangerous."

She is silent for a long time, thinking, staring far into the distance. Eames gets the feeling that she is disappointed, and realizes that it bothers him, her disappointment.

"You are free to go, you know," she says slowly after a long moment.

"…What?" Eames tilts his head, taken aback.

"You're not compelled to stay here and help me. There will be others."

Eames feels guilty for no good reason. She—and Goldsmith—are not his responsibility. He has no obligation to answer her if she reaches out to him. And yet, both the curiousness of her situation and the pity that Eames feels for her confusion make him want to stay, to help.

"Tell me more about your situation," Eames says quite suddenly. She looks up at him, a glimmer of surprise in her eyes.

"Before I leave, I want to know everything about you. What you remember, what you know."

She motions for him to sit down on the curb as she does the same. The setting sun seems to slow.

"How long do you have?" She asks.

"In the real world, fifteen minutes. Down here, maybe an hour. I don't know how the math works. But it should be enough time."

"Okay." She folds her hands about her knee, suddenly looking unprepared. Eames understands—she has not had the opportunity to do this before.

"I'm not sure what my first memory is, but I get the feeling that I've been here—wherever I am—in Goldsmith's mind, I guess—for a long time, for my whole life. I've grown up physically, from a girl to a woman. All the other projections here, in his mind, have always been…um…old, I guess. Older than me, anyway. I have not seen any other children here, besides myself."

"So you think you've been here throughout his entire life?"

"I think so. When he's not dreaming, I'm in some sort of…" The wind threads through her hair as she bites her lips, thinking. "This doesn't sound good, but I'm in some sort of box."

"…A _box_?"

"Yes. Metal, I think. It's cold and smooth. It's fairly large—I can float in it, relaxed, without touching any part of the box—but there are no openings in the box. I've felt around it before. And it's always pitch black."

Eames remembers that she mentioned a metal box the last time they met. "And this is when he's not dreaming," he says.

"Right. And sometimes…okay, this sounds worse. But sometimes, the box suddenly shrinks really quickly. It becomes painful."

"It shrinks? With you still inside?"

"Yes. It gets hard to breathe, and I lose feeling in some of my limbs…I have to stay away from the walls of the box, because they sting." She lowers her gaze to the curb, remembering. "It's hard to stay curled up for so long," she says, now looking up at him with vulnerable eyes. He finds the need to comfort her, to tell her that the pain isn't her fault.

She looks down, away from Eames. "Anyway. This happens kind of frequently, I guess. Usually, between dreams, it will happen for anywhere between two and twelve times. If I am—"

"_Twelve_? This can happen to you _twelve_ times in a day?"

She pauses, and nods slowly. "I guess, yeah," she says quietly, looking off to the side as Eames regards her with disbelief and sympathy.

"Well, why do you think this happens? None of the other projections are treated like this, right?" Eames prods.

"I don't know," she says, shaking her head ruefully. "They run away from me whenever I try to talk to them—you saw just now," she says, gesturing at the empty street. "I think the other projections here do not retain their physical forms. I've been seeing adults in Goldsmith's dreams this entire time, but I don't ever see a…a repeat of a face."

"But _you_ remain constant," Eames murmurs.

"Yes," she says quietly.

Eames peers at her from under furrowed brows. She looks away for a long time, before haltingly allowing herself to meet his gaze.

"So you are isolated from the other parts of Goldsmith's subconscious in between dreams; and when you are in a dream, the other projections avoid you like the plague."

"Yes."

"Sounds to me like you're not even part of his mind."

"But I'm not a person, either. My own person. I'm still…as ostracized as I am, I-I'm still part of Goldsmith. I think. By the way, what is Goldsmith's first name?"

"Bennington."

"Bennington? That sounds like a…a last name."

"Yup. Wait, do _you_ have a name?"

"Um…" She looks to the sky for an answer, before realizing that the clouds have cleared. "I don't think I do. I've never had a need to call myself anything. I guess…you can call me…Goldsmith?"

Eames shakes his head, almost in disgust. "Nah, that's just weird. Let's come up with a name for you."

Her eyes open wide. "What? A name for me?"

"Well, yeah. I can't just call you 'girl,' can I?"

"Um…then…" She stutters, looking around, at the ground, into the windows of the building. Eames looks at her for a moment.

"What about Russ?"

"What?"

"Short for 'Russet.' The color of your hair."

"'Russet'? Is that what it is? I always just thought it was…brownish-reddish," she says, lifting a chunk of her hair and pulling it straight before her face to examine it with new eyes.

"Russ, then," Eames confirms. She—Russet—Russ—tilts her head at the sound of her name, and nods once.

The world blinks black, and Eames wakes up with a start, staring with wide eyes at the narrow ceiling of the airplane.

"Come on, let's go," Trent whispers urgently. "The attendant won't let him wake up until we're gone."

Eames gets up numbly, mind racing, and allows himself to be shepherded out of the room by an increasingly-concerned Trent.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: Second chapter dooone. Wow, it's awesome to post something again :D

Review please!

-Sanded Silk-


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N**: Surprise! Hey guys.

So I've been working on this story, abandoning it and coming back to it, all summer, and this is the sum of my efforts. I would really, really like to finish this story, and I will try my hardest to do so, regardless of how long it will take… Thanks to all who are reading!

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Inception. I think you would all know if I did? Hehe…

-Sanded Silk-

* * *

><p>Eames feels incredibly insufficient in Trent's large, well-furnished apartment—but that's just what happens when a forger of questionable reputation agrees to meet an accomplished extractor, who has numerous shining success stories to flash in a prospective recruiter's face, at his home.<p>

"We have to plan out this one with a lot more care," Trent was saying. "Goldsmith's seen my face in the first layer of a dream, as you know, and I'm going to need a good amount of time in his dream, talking to this girl—did you say you call her Russ? What for?—and seeing if there is anything else worth taking note of." He looks at Eames for a moment, doubt battling curiosity in his expression. "I'm not sure what I should be looking for, but I'll take a look."

Eames nods in thanks.

Trent gets up from his seat, fairly jumping up, to pace around the room, look out of one of his large windows, frown to himself. Eames has known Trent for long enough to know what this means—some kind of inner conflict, usually between a personal interest and a practical one.

"Look, I know it's not safe," Eames says, suppressing a sigh, "and I know that it doesn't necessarily interest you. But I've got no one else to ask, really. I mean there's Cobb, but he's just got back to being a father and I don't think the most intriguing case of alien projection would interest him. And then there's Arthur, but I don't think I—"

"It's not my lack of interest you have to worry about," Trent says, turning away from the window, one hand reaching up to scratch the back of his neck sheepishly. "I'm actually quite intrigued. If this girl—Russ—is telling the truth in all respects, we could have a very interesting case on our hands. No one is paying us, that's for sure, but I'd go in just to figure out what's going on. You don't need to offer me any money to do that."

"You're certainly not lacking in money."

"A metal box, you said?" Trent continues, ignoring the remark. "One that stings her when she touches it? That means when the other projections are wiped after a dream—well, I don't know for sure if they are completely wiped, but let's just assume that, for now—she remains intact, she remains conscious. She's contained. And when the projections are regenerated at the beginning of a dream, she gets dumped in with them." Trent is pacing again. "That almost sounds like she is a separate human being trapped in someone else's mind."

"Have you heard of such a thing before?"

"Of course not!" Trent frowns as he watches the floor pass by underneath his feet. "I wonder if anyone has?"

"Any ideas on who to ask?"

"Not really. Well, yes, but I'm not exactly on good terms with them."

"Would I be on good terms with them?"

"...You know, I'm not sure. But I don't know much about their experience, so I'm not sure I would even recommend attempting to ask them. They might want to get involved."

Eames feels a visceral repulsion to the idea of involving any more people, and decides to leave it at that. He shifts in his seat, thinking.

"Goldsmith has been canceling more of his trips and appointments than usual," Trent says presently, indicating the modest stack of newspapers and memos on his coffee table. He's been keeping tabs on Goldsmith for a few days. "I think he suspects that his mind was infiltrated on that plane."

Eames puffs out his cheeks. "Well then, what now?"

"Not sure," Trent says, plopping back down in his chair and resting his feet on the supports of the coffee table. "I suppose we wait for an opportunity to approach him again."

-0-0-

Other extraction missions filter in and out of Eames's schedule before an opportunity to revisit Russ reveals itself: Semantics wants another go at Goldsmith. Trent frowns when he receives a message from their contact at Semantics, informing him that his services are needed again.

"I told them that my face was revealed, didn't I?" He asks Eames, frustrated.

"Yeah, you did. But look on the bright side—you get to be there if I find Russ."

Trent eyes Eames for a moment. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

"So when do you we start? Do we have a plan?"

Trent shakes his head. "Not really. How do you get into a room with your target and no one else, when your target hardly leaves the presence of others? He's practically barricaded himself at all times, with official duties if not family or colleagues. I don't know how we can get to him."

"Any ailing family members or friends? We could stage some sort of emergency that demands a visit from him."

Trent looks uneasy at the thought, and Eames remembers that Trent has moral issues with this sort of staging.

"You're an extractor, Trent. You're okay with laying bare a stranger's secrets, but not with slipping a little something-something in another stranger's IV drip? I'm not even talking about killing them or permanently worsening their condition, just a temporary diversion. You know that."

Trent shrugs uneasily. "Well, even if I had no problems with it, it wouldn't be a viable option for us anyway. I didn't find any ailing folks in his ring of acquaintances. He does have an estranged younger sister though, messy story there. Could be useful in the future."

Eames frowns. "Semantics didn't give us any leads on how to get to him? They must know that he's walled himself from the public eye, right?"

"They do, I'm sure. But you know their policies. One hundred percent hands-off."

Eames grunts. "Then it looks like a straightforward break-in we're going to have to do."

There is a flicker of relief in the tension of Trent's face, as if this idea appeals to him more than drugging an ailing stranger. Eames wonders why this is.

"Looks like it," Trent was agreeing. "I suppose the good thing about his situation is that he's staying put at his home, where pretty much everything he needs to be a functional military official can be found. But we'll be breaking in to a military official's house. Just saying."

"Yeah, security will be tough." Eames runs a hand over his face. "Maybe we could use that estranged daughter thing you were talking about?"

"Sister."

"Right, that. Maybe we could use that somehow? We are lawyers representing her, or something?"

"We could use that..." Trent's mind goes whirring, and Eames listens as an idea begins to spin to life in Trent's mind.

-0-0-

"I don't understand how that worked."

"Paid off the maid."

"Ah."

"Apparently the housekeeping staff here doesn't particularly like Goldsmith, or the country for that matter. It wasn't difficult at all to get to one of them. She knows to turn back the clocks seven minutes, and when Goldsmith goes to sleep she'll turn the clocks forward seven minutes. Hopefully he isn't so incredibly well trained as to notice a 7-minute sleep shortage."

Eames places his briefcase on the table and opens it. Trent places his paper-stuffed briefcase on the floor by his chair, and rolls up Goldsmith's sleeve. The man, aging and with a distinctly paranoid look, but incredibly sharp for his age nonetheless, is fast asleep from his drugged morning tea, his head lolling to one side, the graying roots of his hair exposed. His arm is flopped, awkward and locked straight, over the arm of his chair. He received them in a modestly-furnished sitting room of sorts, and claimed the most comfortable-looking armchair, leaving the visitors to make do with the sofa.

"So what exactly was the deal with his sister?"

Trent looks at Eames for a moment, bemused. "You mean you didn't read the single sheet of paper I gave you?"

"...Did you debrief me on her? Oh."

Trent sighs, shakes his head, resumes setting up. "His sister," he says, "Helen Claire Goldsmith. She's almost thirty years younger than him, which makes her something around 25. Not much on her, because of all the taboo surrounding the very mention of her name, but apparently she tried to commit suicide at some point, which is a huge no-no in their religion. She was caught in the act, put in a mental ward. Locked away, put under constant supervision. But she doesn't seem mentally lost. They say she reads prolifically, and she avoids her family like the plague. Won't let them visit her, and when they take the trouble to see her against her will, she absolutely refuses to look at any of them."

"The reason?"

"The attempted suicide? No one knows for sure, but the general suspicion is the overbearing nature of their family and their lineage. I'm sure that her parents had her life planned out for her before they even considered adoption."

"She's adopted?"

"Yeah. I guess her parents got bitten by the compassionate bug of social service or something."

"Well, that explains the age difference. I was wondering how they managed to have a daughter when they were..."

Trent cuts in. "Anyway, combine an imposed life plan with the spirited rebelliousness of a twenty-something-year-old, and you could get anything. In this case, attempted suicide."

"Not to be insensitive, but you don't think that's...a little extreme? I'm sure she was living quite comfortably under her parents, and I can't imagine what sort of life plan could be feasible in today's world that is so repulsive to her."

"I don't know what kind of person she is, Eames. Maybe she's super-dramatic, end of story. Most likely there is more to the story than is out there. Anyway, the family is really tight-lipped about it. I think only her parents know the whole of the truth."

"I wonder what Goldsmith thought when he heard that we were requesting a meeting with him on her behalf."

"Well," Trent sighs, standing up and drawing the sofa closer to the table, "he let us in. I think that's telling."

"The doting older brother?"

"Maybe. Ready?"

Eames sits down next to Trent, glimpses the paid-off maid peeking at them from the doorway with curiosity.

"You don't think she'll interfere, do you?" He says, lowering his voice.

"Nope. I made sure of that."

"You did? How?"

That uneasiness. "Doesn't matter now, does it? We're losing time here."

"Hey Trent," Eames says just before they go under. "Are their parents still alive?"

Trent's look is inscrutable as he pushes a button in the briefcase, and as unconsciousness creeps over the edges of Eames's vision, steadily devouring his sight.

"No."

-0-0-

Without the help of an architect, the dream is based entirely on the whims of Goldsmith's mind. The dreamscape they enter immediately reminds Eames of a...hospital?

Indeed, nurses run about, with varying degrees of distress and self-importance showing on their faces, in their gaits. There is something illogical about the whole setting…ah. Eames realizes, as he shakes his head to clear his mind, that the hallways of the hospital are paved with asphalt, painted with white and yellow traffic lines. The apparel of the hospital workers, however, suggest to Eames and Trent that they are in a hospital, or some sort of building similar to a hospital. They step out of the center of the hallway and press themselves against the wall, trying to make sense of their location. Why a hospital?

Before they so much as turn to each other to formulate a plan, a wrecking ball swings through the ceiling, tearing a jagged path through the material. The ball, exaggerated in size, brings down a few walls in its path and scatters odds and ends before it disappears in its upswing. Doors hang half-open, wood and locks splintered. Eames peers into a room, and sees no hospital room, no patient ward, but a simple, rather comfortable living area. Outside the window, which is adorned with surprisingly intricately-embroidered curtains, a shimmering lake lies mirror-like beneath a tranquil blue sky. Trees line the horizon, venturing closer to the building on some occasions before rushing back into the distance once again.

A person is sitting in the bed, reading. A man. He looks up, looks at Eames without really seeing Eames, and mumbles something, gesturing with his book, before continuing reading. His glasses, Eames notices, are upside-down.

"Trent," Eames says as Trent looks into the room as well, "I don't think we're in a hospital."

"More like a psychiatric ward."

"Maybe an elderly living center?"

"I don't think so," Trent says, looking more closely at the man. "He doesn't look that old at all."

Eames does a double take. Indeed, the man in bed, while exceedingly fragile-looking, still has a healthy splash of brown to his graying hair, and his face appears to only recently have begun to wrinkle.

"Psychiatric ward it is, then?"

"Maybe. Let's keep—" Trent is interrupted by the downswing of the wrecking ball, this time at a different angle. Another slash appears in the ceiling and walls of the building. Trent and Eames stumble out of the way, further down the hall, waving their hands in their vain attempts to avoid breathing in the debris. Nurses continue rushing by them, seemingly oblivious to the wrecking ball and the damage in its wake.

"It seems," Trent says, once he is able to speak, "that we are on the top floor of whatever this building is." The blue sky is visible through the gaping holes in the ceiling.

"Shall we search for the stairs then?"

"If we don't want to be killed, yes."

Eames turns away from the destruction of the wrecking ball and heads down the hallway with blind enthusiasm, brushing by nurses and visitors and people dressed like patients. Presently he and Trent reach what looks like an elevator.

"Do you see stairs?" Eames asks, looking around.

"Do you object to the elevator?"

"No, just...it's strange for there to be no stairs, don't you think?"

Before Trent can reply, the wrecking ball races by behind him, carving a path through the material of the building, just a few feet from where he stands. He ducks and rushes forward to slam his fist on the down button of the elevator, and the doors ding open immediately. They pile in without a second thought and the doors close behind them. But before they can push a button, they feel their stomachs rise to their throats as the elevator begins to drop, almost at a free-fall.

"What the—?" Eames runs out of breath before a foul word can escape his mouth, and clings to the handles on the wall of the elevator. The screen above the door of the elevator flashes spasmodically, and as the elevator suddenly slows to a stop, the cables squealing in protest, the screen calmly announces that they have stopped at the basement level.

"Why the basement?" Trent manages as he gets up from the floor, on which he had been sprawled as the elevator was dropping.

"B—" Eames gives up trying to reply before he finishes the first syllable, choosing instead to lean over on his knees and catch his breath.

The doors slide open calmly. Still quite winded, with their hands on their weapons, Eames and Trent exit the elevator into the dim room.

A metal cage, the bars rivaling Eames's calf in thickness, stands in the center of the large, low-ceilinged room, appearing to hold nothing. Trent slips a flashlight out of his boot and flicks it on, flashing it into the corners of the room, up at the ceiling, down at the floor, before finally training its glare on the cage.

As they near the cage, they notice a black bundle lying on the floor in the cage; as they get closer still, the bundle moves and sits up, and they realize that it is in fact a person; and as they stop at the wall of the cage, Eames and Trent both start violently as they recognize the frightened, yet collected, little pale face and the long, russet hair.

"Russ?" Eames exclaims in indignation.

"Helen?" Trent breathes at the same time.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: I think this is a good place to stop for now. I have an idea of what I want to happen next, but I would like to take this story seriously, to plan things out. Which means an update by the end of this year is highly unlikely, but I will strive to get one out anyhow! Uggghhhh. XD

I feel like my style has gotten wordier, which may or may not be desirable, and might even come off as pretentious...please let me in on your thoughts, and if you have other suggestions, please please PLEASE tell me!

Thanks for reading, and please review!

-Sanded Silk-


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